


the water business

by orgiastique



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Courtesan Felix, Edo Period, M/M, Terminal Illnesses, Timeslip Doctor Sylvain, for a courtesan au this is only maybe 2 percent horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23286292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orgiastique/pseuds/orgiastique
Summary: timeslip doctor sylvain & courtesan felix au // Sylvain timeslips to Edo-era Yoshiwara, where he meets an elite courtesan who is the spitting image of his husband.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 22
Kudos: 46





	the water business

**Author's Note:**

> [@lv2nt](https://twitter.com/lv2nt) and i have been high-fiving each other over this au for about 10 days nonstop. we began with the premise of the j-drama jin, which tells the story of a talented neurosurgeon whose fiancée falls into a vegetative state after a surgical procedure he performs on her. he spends his days lost and tortured until he slips down some stairs into the edo period, where he meets his fiancée as a courtesan of yoshiwara. and we've now built such a huge and cursed world for timeslip sylvain and courtesan felix that i have no hope of elaborating it all into fic form. i had to do _something_ to repair the damage it's done to my heart, though. so here is a small bite of a very big nomnom. 
> 
> in short: dr. sylvain uses the knowledge of modern medicine to save the lives of courtesan felix's brethren at house aoi. courtesan felix offers him a free fuck in thanks.
> 
> as usual, a huge thanks to [birdsandivory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsandivory/pseuds/birdsandivory) for her beta and handholding. and ofc thank you, lois, for screaming with me about this idea every eight minutes for over a week. 
> 
> hope you enjoy! ♥

_In college, Sylvain worked part-time at a burger joint. He would brag to Ingrid that he made the best Big Beast Double-Decker Bad Boy, and she would stuff lettuce down the back of his uniform shirt to discourage obnoxious behavior._

_No one assembled those B2D2 Bad Boys like Sylvain. He had a knack for minding the layers, he explained, with a lofty wave of his hand. This, two seconds before Ingrid's tomato-frisbee slapped him in the forehead. This, eight seconds before a grumpy gremlin stomped through the door to pick him up from his shift._

_It was in year one of medical school that he first learned the assembly order for the human brain. Fancy doctors used fancy words for the ingredients, but a sandwich was a sandwich. He could reel off the recipe for that Three-Pounder Bad Boy backwards and in his sleep but orthodoxically, from the inside out, it went like this: cerebral cortex, pia mater, subarachnoid space, arachnoid, subdura—_

_Felix groaned._

_"You're working too much," Sylvain said, watching Felix dig his knuckles into his temples. "Take a break." He laid down his pen and picked up his eyebrows suggestively. "We'll have a little fun."_

_Felix kept rubbing his temples. While also flipping Sylvain the bird._

_"I'm serious, Fe! What if you get an aneurysm! Or some awful tumor! It'd break my heart, love." Sylvain pulled his best kicked-puppy look. "And imagine, if_ I _had to operate on you?"_

_"That would be extremely unethical," Felix pointed out, unimpressed, "since we are married."_

_Hand over chest, Sylvain gasped, feigning outrage of the highest degree. "You would let? Someone else?? Touch your squishy white bits???"_

_Felix laughed in a runaway guffaw that clanged through the room like an uprising. The heroic enterprise of his laughter was a sound you'd never forget even if you tried. "Fuck, you're the worst," he said, shaking his head in exasperation as his hands fell to his side and he hung his neck over the back of the swively chair._

_Thinking this the end of yet another conversation in which Felix surrendered to the dumbassery of his ways, Sylvain stood to refill their coffees. He froze in his tracks, though, when he heard a soft mumbling behind him, barely audible over the current of ambient noise in the breakroom: "Isn't it enough that you're the only one who's ever touched my beating red thing?"_

_A sandwich was a sandwich._

_But, Sylvain thought as his own beating red thing swelled with affection, Felix was a study in layers that he never quite wanted to pick apart._

_________________

The man whose pale thighs straddled his hips was not his husband, who lay in a long sleep centuries away. But Sylvain was slow to refuse him, for the man shared his corporeal form.

"Take it as a token of my gratitude." 

Even his voice, down to the nuance of quarter-pitch and cadence, rang like instinct to Sylvain's ears. 

Sylvain had to remind himself that it was the amber eyes of Kicho, the reigning _oiran_ of House Aoi, that gleamed in the shadow of candlelight as he pulled at Sylvain's borrowed robes. A slow finger traced him from chin to sternum. 

Sylvain swallowed, feeling himself watched carefully. "A nice card would be chill," he hedged. "I don't suppose Hallmark's made its way to Edo yet?" He tried a laugh that died in his throat at the withering glare he received. 

"I would think this the offering of a lifetime for a man of neither status nor wealth. I suggest you savor it on your wagging tongue while you're able, doctor."

Four well-manicured ovalets scraped down Sylvain's chest, testing the strength of his musculature. He hissed between his teeth when the fierce talons clawed over his nipples. They crowned to hardness nonetheless, and Kicho hummed to himself contentedly. His hands ran further down Sylvain's torso until they reached an impasse at the dark sash around Sylvain's waist. With a deft touch that bespoke practice, Kicho picked quickly at the box knot resting at the dip of Sylvain's spine.

Untied, the sash unraveled and fell to the bedding around where Sylvain now sat in the nude. The only thing that protected his decency from Kicho's inspecting gaze was the white piece of cloth looped around his hips. 

With slow deliberation and the luxury of control, Kicho surveyed the naked expanse bared to him the way he'd appraised a gift sword earlier in the day. The hint of something tameless flashed through his eyes, honest for a split-second before their gazes met. It was quickly swept under the cover of scornful derision as he scoffed, "What an obscene body, wasted on a slovenly man like you."

"Thanks?" Sylvain laughed. " _You're_ the one who crawled in my lap, buddy."

Kicho clicked his tongue. "I'd hate to owe any favors, is all."

Sylvain bucked his hips up into the hardness that prodded at his stomach, unmistakable even through many layers of ornate robes. A stuttered breath fell from painted lips. "Sure," he said, grinning and furiously shoving aside the sore wringing of his heart at how long it's been since he last felt _wanted_ like this.

It's been so—

"It's been some time," Kicho said. 

In the dim lighting, Sylvain couldn't tell for sure whether it was blush or shadow that fell high over the courtesan's cheeks. The thought of the former was rather endearing, given: "Isn't it your...job?"

"I am no port prostitute," Kicho said, cringing in disgust.

Though Sylvain hadn't a clear idea what that meant, he decided to take a stab in the dark. "But that _is_ what you do, right? Just for more money?"

"And what is it that you do?" Kicho snapped. _Oh_ sure _, asshole, stab him right through the ribs_ , Sylvain winced, wishing he had the gall and dexterity to surgically sew his own pie-hole shut. "Even if you've proven your extraordinary knowledge of medicine, you do not even know your own origins. At least I know where I came from." His chin was tilted in a haughty skyward line, arched brows set low over narrowed eyes.

It was enough to make Sylvain ache, how well he knew that look. 

"I didn't mean any judgement," he said softly, biting the inside of his cheek. "It just...surprises me to see you this way."

_Kept._

_Caged._

_A commodity encumbered by paramount beauty._

"You know nothing about me," Kicho huffed. Even mounted over a man's thighs, he sat straight as a pin, proud in posture. Despite their difference in standing height, it was as if he loomed over Sylvain, commanding his full attention. _Daring_ his dissent.

 _But I do know you_ , Sylvain pleaded privately. _I know the way of your courage, your tenacity; the way you chew with your mouth open, and convince yourself you hate your father; the way you laugh with your eyes, the way you kiss with your heart in my hand, your fingers on my neck, sunken deep through my skin._

A sense of desperation was rising inside him like hot air. It took all currency of energy in his body to keep the feeling from expelling through his every pore, and the effort left him poor of words. He watched in silence as Kicho unraveled the broad pelt of silk around his waist and shrugged off the heavy coat it held in place. Over an ebony background stretched intertwined branches embroidered in emerald, folded paper in silver, and butterflies in gold. With an exhausted groan, the cumbrous robe caved in a slouch on the floor.

The next silken garment dropped from Kicho's shoulders. Its citrine threads shimmered in the candle-flame as the robe caught on the crook of his elbows and then drowned at his feet, like the dying sun dwindling toward the line of a faraway horizon.

Heart clenched in an iron-clad hold, he let his eyes trace the familiar contours of the sinewy form. It was enshrouded by more layers still but unveiled just enough to invite the exercise of imagination. For every breath Kicho drew, Sylvain took in double, as Kicho began to pull at the elaborate ensemble of combs and pins in his hair.

One by one, they fell from his fingers. Strand by strand, raven-black locks tumbled loose, framing the sharp angles of his face.

Lanced through the base of where his hair parted like two lobes of the brain was a wooden bar the same fierce shade of red as his lips. Reaching back for it, Kicho paused mid-motion. He raised his chin at Sylvain. "Well? Would you like to participate?"

It wasn't until Sylvain lifted his hand that he realized how it shook. Kicho ducked to him, allowing him access. The hair at Sylvain's fingertips was stiff as he pulled first at the bar, then at the thick golden cord that bound the updo in place, following Kicho's quiet instructions for its disassembly. Sylvain carded his fingers through the inky threads, feeling them catch in the soft webbing of his hands. He coaxed them loose until they tumbled and tumbled and tumbled to the floor. Though far longer than Felix ever kept his hair, the locks were the same dark raging hue of witching hour; when the night was very still and you could hear hearts whisper in the silence.

And when Felix found himself impatient, he would react in the same motions that progressed before Sylvain's eyes now: brows bunched together, glaring sideways, a sigh begrudged.

"Go on. Finish the job."

Then, in the same manner as the hand that landed against his cheek, Felix would touch him. Reassurance that they would never change toward each other. The sensation was so warm it made the rest of his body cold. In the touch Sylvain saw Felix— _his_ Felix—and heard the jangling of his sword bag, smelled the sweet musk of his sweat in summer, felt the loving press of his kiss.

With the trepidation of reaching for a ghost, Sylvain cupped the face to which he'd pledged his love over and over till the words were tattooed to his lips. He smoothed his thumb across the faded end of the crimson comet tail that highlighted the bright eyes which watched him. 

"Unravel me."

Sylvain never felt like he truly unraveled all the layers to Felix. It was the product of his own distancing, probably, and fear that if he fully stripped Felix of his defenses, there would be nothing left to protect him from the truth of Sylvain's dark justice and aborted elations. He knew—like the sky was blue, like the sun rose from the east—that he could never truly find himself at the center of anyone's apple heart without rotting it from the core.

Of course, he craved it anyway. Felix's red beating thing. And Felix, even though he had the wariness of a feral cat under the couch, had given it to him.

All Sylvain wanted was to protect him.

"Fe…" he murmured.

Just as the colors trembled in the chill, the lines blurring, a metallic clatter broke the spell.

Sylvain looked down toward the sound, the grid of reality snapping back into place. A dagger. Then, the echo of what he'd said.

Sylvain held up his hands, more mortified by his own insanity than the idea of possibly being murdered tonight. "Shit, I'm sorry—"

"I am used to it," Kicho said with a steadiness that made Sylvain sick. He reached out a hand to swipe the dagger away, the smooth surface of the sheath taking it halfway across the room on the tatami flooring. "That's not for you, by the way. It's just a hobby of mine."

The dagger must have fallen from the innermost layer of Kicho's robes, Sylvain realized, as Kicho divested himself of the last of his clothing. He was an island rising singularly from a sea of opulent silks. His body held none of Felix's lean strength but was defined instead by a pale sleekness reminiscent of the immovable tenacity of winter. Like winter, he'd seen his own fair share of brutality, it seemed.

Sylvain skimmed careful fingers over the yellow-green discoloration across his neck and thighs. "Who did this to you?"

"Who doesn't?" came the response, without missing a beat.

Sylvain's heart clenched; so did his fists.

"You think I would squander time with a penniless vagrant like you if I weren't damaged goods, unsuitable for sale right now?"

"You're _not_ —"

"Ruins the illusion, doesn't it? That I'm yours and yours only," Kicho went on in that same detached tone. 

"But you're your own _person_ ," Sylvain said.

"I am what I'm worth," Kicho said. "Terrible men of great riches shell out a fortune for the power and thrill of the illusion that they, too, are worthy; that they were _chosen_ for love by something hauntingly beautiful." He leaned in, a smile curling viciously at his lips. "That's the trick of _mizu shobai_ , the water business. We drink, we spill; we float in the impermanence of the love that we sell."

It was all Sylvain could do not to walk into the trap Kicho had set for him and show how the cursive poetry cut through him like a serrated knife. "Who said that to you?" he managed, evenly.

Kicho froze, momentarily taken aback by the question. Then, his expression grew so acute it shattered the glass of his impassive facade. "My brother."

"Is he also a courtesan?"

"He was the best."

Sylvain's eyes snapped wide with realization. "I'm sorry."

The line of Kicho's jaw drew tight under his brittle skin as he averted his gaze. "It's fine. His ideals were too fragile for the reality of this place anyway," he said.

 _Then why do you carry his words like sword and shield?_ Sylvain thought. But there was little point other than self-satisfaction in calling out a known hypocrisy.

"And you, you're tough as nails," he said instead, running the back of his hand over the yellow clouds on Kicho's skin.

"Those don't even hurt anymore."

"They hurt to look at."

"Close your eyes, then."

A bitter pill of laughter rolled off Sylvain's tongue. "That's the problem, right."

"What is?"

"You look away from something because you don't want to believe it's true," Sylvain said, hearing his voice thin. "Maybe even make some stupid jokes about why it's not. And then when you get your shit together enough to face it, it's so much worse than you could ever imagine and you" _—_ finally, his voice cracked, brittle as a twig _—_ "you're a doctor, you know? You _fix_ things. And you're damn good at it. But the one person you wanted to always do right by, you fail."

Sylvain's fingers hooked like surgical needles into Kicho's hip. They threaded through the alabaster skin as if meaning to stitch together enough fragments of the man he loved more than life itself to hold him whole again.

"So I think," he said, swallowing hard. "I'd like to keep looking at you, if that's all right."

Suddenly, Sylvain felt the wind knocked out of him as the room turned on its side. He landed on his back, staring with bewildered eyes at the dark shadow of a face looming over his, a black curtain of hair shutting out the dim candlelight.

"You self-pitying nuisance _,_ shut _up,_ " was all Sylvain registered in the chaos before he felt a hot press of lips over his. His mouth fell open in a shocked gasp that was met with the wet slip of tongue, twining with his in a punishing truculence. He tasted the bitter bite of paint.

And he knew. 

He knew that this was not Felix. This person was not his to take home and protect with his life, but if only he could pretend _—_

If only he could have a second chance at all this _—_

If only he could have seen into the future and known that when they promised each other forever, it was actually a prognosis; and when the reverend joined them in holy matrimony, the guy was actually a reaper in disguise, sniggering behind his Holy Book as he divined, _Heartbreaker, let your love die by your own two hands_.

And it was with those same damned hands that Sylvain began to tear at the barriers. He pushed back the long hair that flowed like ink between his fingers and brought their faces to the light, so that he knew, with the clarity of a lance to the heart, exactly whose mouth he was claiming.

It was like lightning slicing the belly of the night sky, the way all his carefully-sequestered yearning hemorrhaged into his chest. It spilled endlessly, leaving his heart hollow of feeling, as he mouthed at the throat that had once gasped his name with no lack of desperation, eyes hot and dark and his pretty, pretty hands trailing all over his skin.

He shifted against the body grinding into his and again felt that firm prod of want against his hip. Heart aflame, he reached for it this time, taking it in a firm hold. He felt the clench of thighs around his hips in response.

"You don't have to do that—try to play _nice_." 

"I want to hear your voice," Sylvain said.

"You want to hear your person say your name."

"Yes," Sylvain admitted, eyes squeezing shut. "Please."

A scoff. "You know, by now, any other man would've had me impaled on his—"

"Felix."

(Silence.)

" _Felix_."

(Two chests heaving.)

(Silence.)

(Silence.)

(Sil—)

"How long?"

"...What?"

"How long...has it been since you last had me?"

And when Sylvain opened his eyes again, there was Felix, expression unreadable. Sylvain didn't dare to decode him. 

"Too long. You haven't been well enough for it in a long time, Felix."

Felix wrapped his own hand around Sylvain's. "And yet, it's like you still have me memorized by heart."

 _"_ It's because it's true," Sylvain said, hopeless and in love.

_…Lazy mornings at home, tracing the rocky road of your spine and counting the stones like rings on a tree…_

_...Timeless afternoons at the hospital, connecting the freckles on your neck and mapping out the coordinates of their position..._

"Tell me," Felix said. "Have I known a man before you?"

"Why does that matter?"

"It matters," Felix said.

"It's never mattered to me," Sylvain said. "Nothing matters but you. I just want _you_ , Felix."

Felix's breath caught in his throat like a key turned in the right lock. He shuddered against Sylvain, breathing hot against his cheek.

_Felix._

Sylvain traced his outline in the shadows, touching him all over. He kissed him with the urgency of their first taste of each other because it might be their last. There was too much tongue and teeth and the gentle ferocity they shared like a common language, but it was okay. It was all okay.

 _Felix_.

He put his mouth over all the places Felix had been hurt by people he didn't know. He put his mouth all over the places where he hadn't failed him, too. Felix's smooth skin and tight muscles flowed beneath his fingertips, surface tension that let Sylvain's hands skim like stones over it, and Sylvain felt his heart sing at the way Felix arched in a low cry, pressing himself up to the wet salvation of Sylvain's tongue. Felix's arms slid around him, holding more tightly than they needed to, and Sylvain engraved his longing and adoration into Felix's collarbones as he carded his hand through Felix's sweat-drenched hair.

_Felix. Felix. Felix._

He murmured against the shell of Felix's ear, incoherency disguised in words that would never be sufficient, _I love you_ meaning _I want to touch you and be in you and around you and with you and loving you forever_ , but even that was not enough. So he let his fingers whisper what his liar’s mouth could never pledge with enough promise, imprinting his message over Felix's eyelids and ribs and the palm of his hand. 

Sylvain hungered for a reply more than he'd ever hungered for sustenance, he was sure. But he braced himself from listening too closely because there was a cursed part of him that remained vexingly aware of the tightrope they walked. One wrong step and down they'd fall like a flash of phosphorescence furrowing the furtive tarp of night sky; ribbons of saffron light flowing into the promise chain of hearts, evanescent as the fieriest of loves on Earth: gone before you had the chance to understand what it was all about, this joy that killed.

"Fuck," Felix choked, pulsing in Sylvain's hand and squeezing his thighs tight around him. He clawed at Sylvain's arms and shoulders and neck, slick everywhere, panting further iterations of _yes, don't stop, fuck fuck fuck_ , before his whole body quivered and Sylvain's hand was coated in his silken warmth.

In that moment, as they lay yoked together, tiny dry kisses settling like dust motes over their skin, things were right again.

It was as if the tyranny of the past five years had been ousted from the throne and there was peace again. It was as if he could protect Felix again, love him properly this time around, the way he knew he was meant to do.

"Your squishy white bits," Sylvain said, opening his palm.

Felix looked at him, eyes unfocused, so beautifully hazy and content that Sylvain wanted to kiss him once more. He leaned in to do just that, only for Felix's mouth to disappear behind his wrist, and out came this muffled noise like a goldfish blowing bubbles underwater. It was an endearing little laugh, Sylvain thought for several blissful heartbeats.

And then his heart froze altogether.

He went cold.

He was still waiting for the heroic enterprise of Felix's laughter.

"You're the worst," said the courtesan, shoulders shaking.

Sylvain agreed.

There was no more laughter.

"What's wrong?"

_You._

_Me._

_Us._

_There is no us._

"You're crying."

"Oh," Sylvain said, touching his face. "That's the jizz hand."

Kicho tugged at the nearest article of clothing, stuffing it at him. "Here."

"This is silk. It feels expensive."

"I don't remember the last time I climaxed by someone else's hand." Kicho swallowed, then looked away. "Wipe yourself already."

So Sylvain did, lying over a strange bed, cleaning the squishy white things of a strange man from his hand and cheek. And it was always during these strange moments of disorientation that you recalled the strangest things, wasn't it? Things you learned when you were young. Cerebral knowledge that became muscle memory. 

"In a couple hundred years," Sylvain said, to the wooden ceiling beams, "you'll be eating these things called 'burgers.' And in a couple hundred plus some years there will be this place called Beast Burger, and they'll have this thing on the menu called the Big Beast Double-Decker Bad Boy. It goes something like this." He closed his eyes and within his inner-mind theater rose a kitchen line. He reached into the bread drawer. "You start with a bottom bun, right? You top that a leaf of lettuce, then slice of tomato, followed by beef quarter-pound patty—"

"Your hypothetical future does not interest me." The image of the kitchen line crumbled away. The ceiling beams, again. "And neither does this disgusting concoction of yours."

Sylvain blinked up at him. "It's pretty good, you know."

Kicho crinkled his nose. "First, you must survive the day. Then, sure as the sun still rises, the future will follow."

Sylvain considered this. "Is there a future for you, too?"

"Who knows." Kicho pushed onto his knees, then his feet, dismounting. They were done here, evidently. "But there is tonight."

"I guess it's getting late," Sylvain said, looking to the window. Through the paper screen, a frantic flurry of flakes performed shadow theater.

"You're staying, right?" Kicho asked, kicking aside the layers they'd shed to clear way toward his face basin.

"I have nowhere else to go," Sylvain said.

Kicho laughed, blowing bubbles into the water. In the golden candle flame, his hair shimmered like the scales of a fish caught on a silken line. He splashed, he spilled; water floated free through his fins for just a suspended breath of relief before repeating the torture.

"Good," Kicho said when his face was dry and the candle burned low. "That makes two of us."

 _Good_ , Sylvain told himself as he waited for the sun to rise again.

_________________

_In a physical sense, Sylvain did not ever touch the beating red thing in Felix's chest._

_He did, however—in a very physical but less romantic sense—touch the squishy white bits inside Felix's skull._

_A day passed. Then three. Then forty-five._

_And there he was, knelt at Felix's bedside waiting to say good morning; but really he was reciting the surgical plan, like a record lost on loop._

_And there he was, knelt at Felix's bedside waiting to say good morning; but really he was thinking about childhood promises._

_And there he was, knelt at Felix's bedside waiting to say good morning; but really he was calculating the distance between where he was and where he must go to bring Felix home._

**Author's Note:**

> ****  
>  some historical notes:   
> 
> 
>   * oiran: elite courtesans who were extremely well-cultured. they were of very high social standing (despite being heavily & perpetually indebted to their house) and had more than sufficient prestige to refuse clients. there was a courting ritual of sorts which required the customers of an oiran to meet her three times before receiving her nighttime services.
>   * port prostitute: the above is the reason that oiran felix indignantly informs sylvain that he is not a "port prostitute" who would stand by the newly opened ports of edo, offering their services at a very cheap rate to anyone willing to purchase them.
>   * oiran fashion: oiran were the trend-setters in women's fashion back in the day. they were to appear first and foremost beautiful beyond human reckoning. they wore layers. so many layers. typically 4-5 heavily embellished silken kimono + obi tied in front. all this would weight ~30kg, on top of which their hair ornaments would add another 10kg or so. the dress of oiran felix here is based on [this ref](https://twitter.com/lv2nt/status/1242215830462640129?s=20) @lv2nt drew me. she also drew a disheveled version of this that put me to sad-horny tears.
>   * kicho (喜蝶): the name of a [real oiran](https://collections.mfa.org/objects/471077) who lived during the 1830s. the name translates to "felicitous butterfly" though courtesan felix would likely insist on using the kanji for kicho that would make him the "demon master" (鬼長). maybe his stans call him ki-sama. sidebar: kicho can also be written with the characters for "precious" (貴重) but in way of value & i just think that's neat.
>   * mizu shobai ("water trade"): euphemism for the nighttime entertainment/sex industry in japan. "water" refers both to the literal water of bathhouses where many prostitution businesses took/take place but also serves as a metaphor for the drinking and floating impermanence of the red-light district (otherwise known as "the floating world" or ukiyo).
> 

> 
> there's a ridiculous amount of lore for which @lv2nt has drawn many positively _delightful_ sketches. you can find more info at [this thread](https://twitter.com/orgiastique/status/1242215276088676353?s=20).
> 
> [RT this fic](https://twitter.com/orgiastique/status/1242220406209200134?s=20) | [come talk to me about fe3h/sylvix/cats](https://twitter.com/orgiastique)


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